A Good Deed
by sueb262
Summary: We take our best actions, we follow our bliss, we examine our hearts and obey the noble within us. Then we suffer the consequences.
1. Prologue

**A Good Deed  
**_We take our best actions, we follow our bliss, we examine our hearts and obey the noble within us. Then we suffer the consequences._

Prologue

It was dark inside the cave, so deep and winding, blessedly dark and damp and cool and still, and daylight filtered only a short way into the interior. A tiny rivulet of water trickled out the entrance, beneath the vines that draped the opening and almost completely obscured it from view. Indeed, the soft burble of the stream had been the only thing that had alerted even him to the cave's existence.

He'd been almost out of his mind with thirst, with heat, scorched both inside and out, only his indomitable spirit leading him on, his determination to live—to live and to return and to act—quickening his body, only this had enabled his survival thus far. He remembered, vaguely, as from a dream, collapsing face-first and full-body onto the watery thread and sucking at it as though to increase its very flow by his need. He'd remained prone, breathing and drinking, for hours until he'd gathered just enough strength to drag his bleeding, broken, suffering body into the shade of the cave, collapsing barely inside the entrance.

Finally, he came to, his mind reeling, in an agony of sensation, every part, every cell, his very skin screaming its protest at being dragged back to life.

_But I am alive! And I will survive. And return. _

_

* * *

Review responses: **SiriusFan13:** How sweet you are to be so enthusiastic about this. I hope it will please you as it progresses! **Nonamejane:** I guess you will find out later. (evil grin) **Lackwit:** Yep, you got it. I'm glad you approve (now to keep your interest…). _


	2. Chapter 1 Gozaemon

**Chapter 1 – Gozaemon **

In the still, shimmering heat, the old man struggled along the dusty trail winding up the rocky hillside with his small burden, too familiar with the way to stumble, too long in this world to hurry.

_Yoshi's right, I'm getting too old for this._

Every morning for a week, he'd trekked up to the caves in the hills above the village with a carefully packed sack: a baked sweet potato, two rice balls, a boiled egg, a couple of pieces of jerky.

Oh, yes. And the bandages.

* * *

A glorious day, full of birdsong, bright sunshine, robin's-egg blue sky, and a crisp, heart-lifting breeze that rustled the backyard tree and even reached a finger down into the well to stir its limpid surface. Chickens scratched contentedly at god-knows-what in the yard, and the neighbor's damned dog sunned himself in a corner of the garden, long ago given up even pretending to chase them. 

_What do you know—another spring in my own skin._

Gozaemon stood from his weeding and stretched his creaking back, stretched his strong, sinewy arms way above his head up into that blue breeze. The resulting cracks and pops startled the little bird perched on a nearby fencepost, and it fluttered up to land unsteadily on a neighboring section. This spring, his neighbors had sent their young boy around to offer to help the ancient one plant his garden, but Gozaemon considered this exertion part of why he was still around. Somehow, it seemed to him like a kind of "entry test" to life: pass it, and he qualified for another year; fail, and… Well, he'd always passed, hadn't he?

His old heart beat light and quick today. Today would be special. Today, his young friend—he could almost hear Yoshi's guffaw at the epithet "young"—was due to arrive. And, according to last week's letter, planned to stay for three or four days. This long-standing friendship was another of life's real pleasures for him.

Yoshi had actually been his son's friend—indeed, his son's best friend—but when The City had called, and his son had answered its siren song and moved his entire family there, so far away and so long ago, the abandoned widower and the abandoned friend found not only comfort in each other's company, but a true meeting of spirits. Gozaemon's naturally youthful mind and Yoshi's surprisingly precocious one had fallen into easy step with each other and simply never parted company. Even when Yoshi's trade put him on the road, as it did almost continually these days, the connection between the two remained strong and alive, like a ropy vine whose stringy tendrils creep through every barrier and along every path, tough enough to withstand drought, neglect, and treading feet.

They shared memories over nightly pots of tea at first, later with sake and a pipe. They recited the old tales to each other, and created new ones, some silly, some heartbreaking, some sobering. As the times moved, insistently intruding on even their isolated hamlet, they puzzled over the promises and failures of the new era; they wondered what the future held for them, for their village, for their country.

On the road, Yoshi saw too many—too many and ever more—drifters, forsaken and forgotten by the new order, bereft of purpose and place, new strangers to hope and opportunity. He brought these stories back to his friend, and together, their hearts ached for these cast aside ones, and burned at the heartlessness of a society willing to waste so many souls. Their shared unease with the burgeoning age and the rips and tears they saw in its social web sparked something in each of them.

One day, Yoshi had had enough. He rounded a curve and almost stumbled over a particularly pitiful specimen, huddled among a cluster of boulders by the roadside. The man could barely lift his head enough to meet Yoshi's eyes, then slumped back against the rocks. Something in Yoshi burst, and he froze in his tracks.

_This one, at least, will not die for my inaction!_

Late the next morning he showed up at Gozaemon's garden leading a scraggly, starving, puzzled fellow, and simply handed him over. Wordlessly, the other half of the new, intuitively-formed team took him in, fed him and cleaned him up. When a neighbor planned a trip to visit relatives, relatives who owned a thriving shoe shop in a nearby town, Gozaemon called in a favor, and soon the rehabilitated wanderer found himself busy, fed, paid, and once again respectable.

It became a happy habit for them both.

* * *

Everyone, even Yoshi, had tried to discourage him from rambling by himself in the rocky hills. He would fall and break a fragile bone and be stranded; he would suffer a stroke and lie there, alone and suffering, long before anyone would miss and search for him. Finally, in their frustration at his stubbornness, they became ridiculously insulting: he would forget his way home and his chickens would break out and run amok and his neglected garden would attract pests and his hut would burn down and this would all be a bother to the rest of the village. 

He sat silently under the weight of the scoldings, smoking his pipe, eyes cast to the ground before him, and they'd finally given up, exasperated. After a few days, other scandals captured their attention, and he resumed his solitary roaming in peace. They pretended not to notice.

* * *

Today, his ramble took a different turn. 

Today, late in spring, the air carried the first promise of the heat of summer. Gozaemon felt particularly energetic, invigorated by the anticipation of Yoshi's arrival that evening.

So energetic, in fact, that he decided to visit His Spot again.

There was a high meadow that always held traces of snow on its gentle slope late into the season, later than anywhere else around, late enough that the strong early summer sun had already coaxed shoots of green out of every limb and stem and stalk. He found something transporting about all this vibrant verdancy bursting through the still-pristine islands of snow under the trees, shouldering aside the doomed icy glaze huddled in the cracks of boulders. Maybe it reminded him that life always finds a way. Maybe it encouraged his own yearly renewal.

Maybe he just liked the pretty colors.

_And no one else ever comes here—this place blooms just for me._

He plopped himself down heavily on his favorite boulder overlooking his meadow—_Whew! That climb does get steeper every year_—and mopped his brow, then stuffed the damp rag back into the front of his shirt. He felt his breathing slow, and listened to his heart's pounding ease in his ears. As his body's own noises lessened, the meadow's peaceful symphony asserted itself: the hum of insects, busy with their endless duties; dueling birdsong; the breeze rustling leaf and blade, and burbling through crevices in the rocks.

The aroma of hot grass and eager flower flowed into his nostrils, the very smell of life itself, and warmed his insides like no bowl of sake ever could.

_What is that?_

An uneasy, rhythmic rasp, that didn't belong, clashed with the calm. He raised his head, turning it this way and that to triangulate on the source. It was vague, and seemed to be filtered somehow. He stood, listening hard, then took a few hesitant steps to his left before halting and turning confidently back to where he'd been sitting. And beyond, behind.

He had it.

He himself had taken refuge in that sheltering cave in summer storms past; napped there on hot autumn afternoons; actually concealed himself there once, feeling very much five years old and not a little silly, when the village had decided to come and fetch him home for his own good. So he knew perfectly well that any creature with a sufficiently firm desire for privacy and even a modicum of sense, which explained why his neighbors had failed, would both find and claim it.

He bent and entered, pushing aside the screening vines. He hadn't been in here in quite some time, and, as he stood up straight, the dank aroma raised pleasant memories for him. His eyes needed time to adjust to the faint light, and his ears needed time to pinpoint the sound's source.

_Oh, it's way back there…_

* * *

The pitiful creature languishing in the cave didn't need new bandages every day, but Gozaemon always brought fresh ones with him, just in case, along with the provisions. 

And his questions, which remained, so far, almost completely unanswered. It was curious: this man, this nightmarishly damaged man had, in spite of his physical frailty, directed by sheer force of will how his recovery was to be managed. Gozaemon had been surprised by the irresistibility of the man's determination, of his strength of character and resolution of decision. Gozaemon, who always knew his own mind and went his own way and was ruled by no one, found himself listening and obeying and fetching, all according to this extraordinary man's orders.

_Well, he seems to know what he needs. And I like a man who steers his own ship…_

He'd been shocked, really shocked by the man's condition. The straitened, labored breathing, the shallowly heaving chest, the feverish heat radiating off the whole body; Gozaemon could hardly believe the man was alive, and he was one who had seen bodies in the worst kinds of sickness and damage. He'd knelt down by the prostrate, groaning form, and gently turned him over onto his back, dimly registering the unnatural feel of the man's clothing.

_What is he wearing? Nothing but leather? In this heat?_

The man was not unconscious, and in the dim light Gozaemon could just barely see his eyes open to slits and his mouth move, mumbling something unintelligible.

"You just be quiet, my friend. Let me get you some water first, and then we'll see what we can do for you."

He crawled back out to his pack and retrieved his skin bag of water. Once back in the cave, he gently lifted the man's head to help him drink. He almost dropped it again.

He could distinctly feel the hole in the back of the skull, sticky with dried blood, the edges crisp and crumbly, and of a size that told him this was where the bullet had exited.

_Shot in the head… Impossible!_

Focusing on immediate needs, he put the spout of the bag near the man's lips and allowed a few drops to leak out. The almost animal response nearly broke his heart—this poor thing was truly at death's door.

_I can't imagine how he's hanging on._

"Now take it easy. You're in bad shape, and we need to be careful with you, okay?"

In his hand, the man's head nodded in slow assent.

"I'm going to stay with you long enough to make sure you have enough water, then I'm going to leave…"

The fingers of the hand resting against Gozaemon's calf clutched feebly at his pants leg, and the rasping took on an uneven, forced quality.

"Don't worry. I'm just going back to my house to get some salve and bandages. And, I think, a little broth. You can probably handle that, and the salt and protein will do you a world of good."

The desperate grip eased, and Gozaemon could feel the man relax again.

"Here, try to take a little more water…"

_

* * *

Review responses: **omasuoniwabanshi:** Oh, I'm sure you know who this is! I'm so glad you are enjoying it so far! **Kamakiri Muteki:** Oh, goody—a new reader! Welcome, and thanks so much for reading and reviewing! **Skenshingumi:** You "saved them up", eh? grin I do that, too. Thanks for picking up on that "pretty colors" line; I, too, liked the "deflating" effect after all that solemn "wonderfulness". Yes, I think that this sad era in Japanese history has been echoed in other eras, other times, other countries. You'd think we'd learn a thing, wouldn't you? _


	3. Chapter 2 Yoshi

**Chapter 2 – Yoshi **

"Are you going to bring him back here?"

Yoshi was used to Gozaemon's determination and energy, so unusual in a man of his age, but this was something else again. His old friend positively glowed with purpose, and he literally scampered as he crisscrossed the worn floor of his little house, gathering a collection of objects listed only in his head. His concentration was such that he responded to Yoshi's questions with hardly more than grunts.

"Where is that other skin bag? I can't put broth in the one for water…"

"Gozaemon…"

"Let's see, which of these herbs will be best?" He knelt in front of a small cupboard, diligently uncorking, sniffing—"Phew, that's gone off!"—and re-corking pottery bottles; loosening drawstrings of little cloth bags, inserting a moistened fingertip to retrieve a taste of the contents—"Tch, how did the curry get here?"—then either replacing them on their shelves or adding them to the growing crowd on the floor next to his knees.

"Gozaemon, are you going back up there yet today?"

"I'd better take two blankets: the floor of that cave is pretty rocky."

"You're not going alone, you know!"

Now the old man was gathering bandages and salve—quite a lot, it seemed to Yoshi.

"What? No, no—you just got here and I'll be gone only about an hour. You've been traveling all day and you haven't even had tea, much less anything to eat; I don't need you collapsing on me as well!"

Yoshi snorted. He recognized Gozaemon's full-dress rescue mode, and knew better than to waste words. He also knew that they would be halfway up the hill before his old friend realized he'd tagged along. Not only would it be too late to turn back, but by then Gozaemon would have forgotten his earlier insistence and be happily re-focused on his goal.

Muttering down into his loaded, still-open pack, Gozaemon mentally assessed its contents, found it acceptable, and tied it closed.

"Well, don't just stand there! Come on, I'd like to get there while it's still light."

* * *

Consciousness fought with hallucinatory dreams and battled searing memories as he swam slowly up into light. 

_Where am I?_

He cracked open one eye, then shut it immediately, the dim light piercing deep into his brain. He took a few deep breaths, steeled himself, and tried again. Better. This time, even both eyes.

_Oh, that's right—a cave. Thank god._

He raised a shaky hand to his forehead, muscles screeching at the effort, and felt the wound near his right temple. It was surprisingly small and neat. And painless. The bullet had probably damaged some nerves.

_I suppose that's a good thing._

He wasn't sure whether he was remembering events correctly, in the right order. He couldn't even tell how long ago it had happened. Trying to recall it all felt like trying to hold fog, and made his head swim.

_Later. I'll sort it out later._

He thought about sitting up. He might just be able to do that, and it seemed somehow important, significant—like it meant he would survive.

He was propped up slightly where the wall of the cave curved gently to meet the floor. He didn't remember doing that, but it did make this task easier. All he needed to do was put his left hand slightly behind him and push…

The dimness grew even darker, bright sparks swam in his vision, and a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him. He relaxed his arm muscles, but kept it in place; he had to make this work.

_Okay, just rest for a bit… Breathe… Breathe easy…_

As soon as the cave stopped spinning and righted itself, he tried again. This time he managed to get his torso vertical, his head upright. He tried opening his eyes again. A brief moment of vertigo, then his vision settled down. He was sweating and breathless from the effort, but actually felt better for having succeeded.

Fuzzy images tickled his mind: a voice, gentle hands, water. A dream? No, it felt like a memory.

He'd been found.

He tensed in the old way at the realization. Now, suddenly, he was fully conscious, in control of his senses, reading his environment with the clarity and efficiency available only to one whose very life had long hung on that skill, no matter the circumstance.

_Nothing. No humans, anyway. I'm probably safe. For the present…_

* * *

"He couldn't talk at all? You don't know anything about him?" 

"No. I'm amazed he was even breathing. That shot must have traveled along the inside of his skull and missed his brain. I've never seen anything like it."

The sun cast their shadows well behind them, but would sink below the rim of the hills in just a few minutes. Daylight would linger for a couple of hours more, in the form of the soft, late afternoon light unique to this particular slope hanging under the hill's ridge. This was Gozaemon's favorite time of day, and something he'd shared only with Yoshi. He supposed that was selfish of him.

"What can have happened to him?"

"I can't imagine. That wound, his inability to talk, his fever… And there's a funny smell, sort of like smoked pork. Must have something to do with his clothes."

"Leather, you said. I've never heard of someone dressing entirely in leather. Who would do such a thing? In this season?"

They were entering the meadow, but Gozaemon hadn't had to stop even once on the way up.

_Nothing like a mission to put a spring in an old man's step, eh?_

"It's just over there, behind that boulder."

"Where? I remember it's there, but it's been so long since I've been up here…"

"See where that little stream is? That's it."

"Oh, yes, I remember now. I don't think I could have found it again on my own."

"The opening is pretty narrow. Wait outside here. I'll go in and see how he's doing."

Yoshi settled himself on the edge of the boulder nearest the cave, and the old man pushed aside the vines with one arm and slipped inside.

Gozaemon stood still a moment, letting his eyes adjust—_No need to stumble over him!_—then moved cautiously further into the interior, toward the spot where he'd left the wounded man. Something was different. The raspy breathing was still the same, but…

_He's sitting up?_

"Are you awake?"

The man slowly turned his head, and Gozaemon felt, more than saw, their gazes meet. It was like stepping into a campfire's circle of heat. The man made a scraping noise in the back of his throat.

"It's okay, don't try to talk." He called over his shoulder, back out to his friend, "Yoshi, bring that pack in here!"

Yoshi stepped into the cave, and Gozaemon was startled to see the man's reaction: he actually made as if to kneel upright. It almost looked as though he were getting into some sort of defensive position.

"What are you doing?" Gozaemon put his hand heavily on the man's shoulders. "Just stay there! You're in no condition to be moving around." Then, more gently, "We are here to help you."

"Others." The word emerged gutturally, painfully, from the man's throat.

"What? Did you say 'others'? What do you mean? Are there others who need our help?"

"No." The grating breathing deepened to support the effort to speak. "Hiding. Don't… tell others."

"You're in hiding?" The man nodded. "Oh, you don't want anyone else to know you are here." The man nodded again, more vigorously.

Gozaemon snorted. "Don't worry about that! I keep my business to myself, and you, my damaged friend, are my business. Yoshi here is like my own son. You are safe with us."

"Thank you." Even in the man's nearly inaudible voice, Gozaemon could hear the relief, could sense the release of tension.

"Okay, you just be quiet now." He accepted the bowl Yoshi handed him and asked, "How much of that powder did you put in here?"

Yoshi said, "Two fingertip pinches, right?"

"No!" Again the scratchy voice sounded in the little space, insistently, distressed.

"Take it easy, it's only a weak pain-killer. Just enough so you can bear having your wounds cleaned. It's very little—I don't dare give you too much."

Gozaemon held the bowl out, but the man still hesitated.

"I give you my word that you are safe. And that I know what I'm doing."

The man reached out his hand and took the bowl. He peered down at the contents, then turned that piercing gaze back on Gozaemon. Gozaemon kept his gaze steady, allowing himself to be searched, weighed, evaluated.

The man drank. Apparently, Gozaemon had passed another test.

* * *

Yoshi wiped his hands clean of the residue from the sticky salve. Treating that head wound had taken longer than he'd expected. The entry had been surprisingly clean—_almost as though it's been cauterized_—but the exit was messy, really messy. The man refused to lie on his stomach to have it cleaned, had insisted on sitting up, and, in spite of their experience and the analgesic, the process had to have been agonizing. The man's shaved head presented no problem, but they'd had to remove bits of bone, and dried blood, and, oddly, dirt and twigs. His stoicism and strength were remarkable. 

_Almost too remarkable._

Gozaemon had been completely caught up in his ministrations, but Yoshi had found himself wondering, a little uneasily, about their patient's history. To have survived a shot in the head… And this full-body, radiating heat… Something didn't add up for him.

Then they had laid out the blankets and helped the man to a more comfortable position lying on them. Gozaemon had given strict instructions regarding rest and quiet, and the man had seemed to accept these dictates docilely enough, but they had had to handle him quite a bit in settling him in.

As they repacked their supplies, preparing for the hike back down the mountain, the drug and the broth began to have their effects, and the man drowsed.

They emerged from the cave into deep dusk and cool air, and stood under the starry canopy stretching their limbs and their backs. Yoshi picked up the pack, now considerably lighter, and they set off, descending easily down the slope. Gozaemon chattered happily as they walked—_This really is his mission, isn't it?_—but Yoshi's thoughts kept him quiet. Finally, Gozaemon noticed.

"My friend, you are far away."

Yoshi considered whether or not he should voice his unease. After all, he himself could hardly credit what he was thinking.

"Well?"

"Gozaemon, I don't think that's leather he's wearing. In fact, I don't think he's wearing anything at all."

_

* * *

Review responses: **LadyRhiyana:** Well, the "good deed" part (and its outcome) is what I intend to explore. Yes, Shishio sort of got the short end of the stick, didn't he, regardless of what you think he deserved. Thanks for appreciating my "unconventional" approach (what a nice way to say that)! **Lolo popoki:** I'm glad you approve of my main character, and of my including my OCs. I hope I can make them all interesting. Thanks for your loyalty! **Omasuoniwabanshi:** Yeah, pretty creepy, ne? But then, that whole "burnt skin" thing is pretty creepy, and there's no getting around that! **skenshingumi:** Yes, it's certainly true that Shishio and Gozaemon approach the world from quite different directions, isn't it? I guess that's one reason I threw them together here—just to see what comes of their meeting. Some things are being foreshadowed, but not much, as I'm sort of seeing where these characters take it myself—I'm not much more "in the picture" than are you readers! _


	4. Chapter 3 None So Blind

**Chapter 3 – There Is None So Blind**

He should have had no way to keep track of time. Purposely, he'd moved further back into the inky depths, cutting the already dim light to virtually nothing, but he felt safer, and his stinging eyes and raw skin thanked him for the even cooler, damper air.

He should have had no way to keep track of time, but he did. Life had offered him opportunity and reasons enough to refine his inner clock, to perfect it to such a degree that no external cue revealed to him more precisely the sun's position and path; his own body's cycles were not more familiar to him than the phases of the moon.

_My own body's cycles…_

He smirked bitterly at the irony of the comparison. For days, the shell he now inhabited might as well have been a stranger's, it was that alien to him: wild temperature swings, careening between gripping chills that tensed his body until he couldn't move and surges of heat that suffocated him, seared the backs of his eyeballs, made his ears bleed and his heart feel as though it would burst; wilder nightmares and deliriums that were indistinguishable from reality, nearly driving him the rest of the way toward madness with panic, hate, heartbreak; unendurable agony that, even so, was endured.

Thanks to the care of the two old men, his mind was clearing and his memories were returning. Returning shuffled, to be sure, and hardly less nightmarish than his hallucinations, but stronger each time he woke from uneasy sleep. His brain struggled to put them in sequence, to assign meaning to the appalling scenes, to divine their import.

That night: called to a meeting where he expected to hear the formal announcement of his promised appointment to an eagerly-anticipated position of respect and responsibility; a meeting where instead, shocked, he'd found himself ambushed, overpowered and bound, then manhandled into the back of a cart. A disjointed, jarring trip—in an unaccustomed fog of shock and disbelief—and he was dumped out onto the cold, damp ground, still ignobly bound hand and foot. He lay, refusing to struggle or cry out, surrounded by the vile cowards who had betrayed him; he could hear them muttering to each other, could actually smell their fear of him.

_What despicable, contemptible dogs!_

In the black of the moonless night—even the stars had seemed cloaked—he felt, more than saw, the gathering of soldiers, could hear their numbers in the shuffling of their feet, could read their unease in their nervous coughs. That, at least, he understood; he knew what he was to them: a demon, a wraith that appeared, struck down, and then vanished into the night.

But what he was, what he thought he had been, to the clan leaders, to Katsura especially, his own commander—how could he have been so mistaken, so blind? Had he never understood their view of him? Had his savvy and clever mind, his very ambition, betrayed him as well?

Some part of him desperately wanted to shrink from remembering the events that followed, wanted only to hide and heal.

_No, not my way!_

It was a foundation stone of his honor to face all that came to him, never to seek an easier path or a softer way.

So he remembered:

First, he'd been kicked onto his back, and held in place by several boots planted heavily on his limbs. A single, shouted command broke the stillness, shrill and hoarse with jumpy tension. Then, blinding light, light that faded into pain that surpassed pain; pain that blanked out his mind, but, cruelly, only briefly. Pain that dragged him down into hell and held him there in its iron grip, crushed his skull, exploded behind his eyes, between his ears, contorted his limbs, seared in his gut.

Pain so overpowering that the sensation of alcohol sluicing over his body and soaking his clothes registered only faintly, a rumor from another world. By the time the heat of the flames intruded on his screaming consciousness, his mind, his very soul had retreated from his body: he looked down from above on the writhing creature and the enveloping flames that provided the night's only light.

Hours later, the sky still black as the night's earlier deeds, he came back to himself. The smell of his own burnt flesh filled his nostrils, turning his stomach and gagging him. His head felt empty, vacated. Incapable of thought, driven by instinct and willpower alone, he staggered up, one outstretched hand serendipitously landing on a tree trunk. He tried a step and fell. Staggered up again, tried again, fell again. Over and over, all through the night, the macabre dance was repeated under the pitiless gaze of the denizens of the surrounding forest.

When morning broke, he discovered he could still see a little; his eyes worked, at least to that extent. He fell less often, and he made decent time, widening the distance between his damaged self and his abusers.

The last time he fell, he felt the little wavering brook beneath him.

* * *

"I don't understand you. What do you mean? I felt his clothes myself!" 

"Gozaemon, didn't you pay attention? Nothing extends beyond the line of his body. There are no sleeves, no flow of fabric. Nor even of leather, come to that. Think back on how it actually felt when we helped him onto the blankets."

"Well, it had to be something! Skin doesn't feel like that."

Gozaemon had stopped stock still at Yoshi's first pronouncement, and Yoshi now stood, turned back to face him, several paces further along the path.

"Normal skin doesn't. I don't have an explanation, but I'm sure something awful has happened to him."

"You mean, besides the bullets through his head and body?"

Yoshi smirked to himself at this flip remark, then turned and continued downhill, pacing his steps to allow his old friend to catch up.

"Well, if you want to know the truth…"

"Yes, please."

"…I really think he was burned."

"What, burned all over? So you think he was torched, then riddled with bullets? And then what? He just picked himself up and strolled to my meadow?"

_He's actually peeved at me_, Yoshi thought with some amusement.

"Look, all I'm saying is that I'm pretty sure he's worse off than we first thought. I'll be amazed if we can actually pull him through."

"Hmph."

_I'm so uneasy about him. Just who is he hiding from? Who did this to him? And why?_

* * *

Even as a child, he'd been a cipher to his family and his friends: such a serious boy, truly interested only in his swordsmanship, his martial arts, his studies. 

And his own peculiar ways of sensing.

He knew things he had no way of knowing: this one was cheating his business partner; that betrayed lover plotted revenge; a respected community leader took base liberties with young household members.

This ability, in particular, set him awkwardly apart. Most adults, and even some children, fidgeted when subjected to his piercingly perceptive gaze. His dark, smoky eyes seemed to search the very core of one's soul, leaving no corner private, no thought secret, no lie unrevealed. People avoided him.

This did not perturb him. He preferred his own company and his own activities. His devotion to his studies consumed him, and he looked on social duties as intrusions that he nevertheless fulfilled with grace and a dignified competence, as befitted his station. He prized his unique abilities, considered them heaven's touch and himself under holy obligation to further their growth.

Physically, he was imposing as well: tall and lean, naturally muscular and graceful. Both by wont and by discipline, he met the world with a stoic, severe visage that brooked no frivolity. Childish play had never brought him pleasure; from early on, he preferred the weighty satisfaction that came from mastery of a skill or completion of an arduous task.

A cipher to all, all except his father.

Shishio Mareo, the daimyo's right-hand. Shishio Mareo, a hard man, a strict disciplinarian, and, unusual for a samurai of the period, with a passion for learning in all its forms. Shishio Mareo, almost what the gaijin termed a "Renaissance man". Mareo understood that phrase and strove to embody it; to instill in his young son, as well, a dedication to developing all his abilities. He required that Makoto study and excel in the ways of Western thought and Western science along with the profundities of his Japanese heritage.

"Makoto, our empire is under great pressure from outside forces. Other countries are beginning to cast greedy and rapacious eyes on our land and our resources. We are a strong, undefeated people, and our existence is a challenge to the restless Western spirit.

"Change is brewing in our country, son; change that will bring unintended and uncontrolled consequences to us all. Our people will need strong leaders who can chart a safe and meaningful course through this change. Much that is old will pass away, and there is nothing to be done about that. But hidden in the new will be much that is fine and good; only men of courage and wisdom will be able to discern the gold in the dross and craft a successful future. Unfortunately, many men in power are neither courageous nor wise, and something will have to be done about them: they cannot be allowed to destroy, by their weakness and their greed, our glorious and holy destiny.

"You, my son, are heir to a long line of strong, influential men; men who sacrificed the pleasures of life to shoulder their obligation of duty and power. Their legacy passes to you; you must fulfill it with all that you are and have."

Makoto listened raptly to these sermons, and remembered. His father was one of the few men he deemed worthy of his respect, and he admired him freely, openly. Father and son shared not only their imposing physical presence but quick, powerful minds that thirsted after challenge and knowledge, and stalwart, independent spirits.

He flowered under this regimen of discipline, severity, and high expectation, feeling, as he grew to manhood, the weight of the cloak of responsibility and duty; accepted it, welcomed it even, as it settled around his young shoulders. He always acted with his whole being, nothing held back, admitted no niggle of doubt or uncertainty.

He was equal to the burden of his inheritance, was eager for it.

Mareo took pride in his son, knew he had chosen his name well: Makoto, one who is sincere. And good.

* * *

A soft drizzle began to fall just as the dim silhouette of the little house rose in the night before them. The evening was warm, their fatigue great, and they welcomed the cooling mist. 

"A good day's work, ne?" In spite of the effects of the day's demands on his body, Gozaemon was still galvanized by his new project. All the way down the mountain he had bent Yoshi's ear with his plans for this one's recovery, had fretted over how he would find enough bandages, had worked out, aloud and at great length, the formula for a better salve, now that he knew he was treating serious burns.

Standing under the engawa's sheltering roof, they shook off their cloaks, the shower of water droplets spotting the paper of the shoji. Sliding it open and stepping inside, the old man said, "I'll get dinner started. See if those hens have laid anything today; just one for me, but you'd better have two."

"You're as bad as a mother hen yourself, you know."

The evenings' brief summer shower had stopped, and bright moonlight bathed the world in silvery light. Yoshi picked his way across the tiny yard, and stooped down into the coop's close, humid darkness.

_I like eggs, but I sure hate the smell of a coop!_

He felt around in the nests in the dark, his stealthy touch hardly disturbing the sleeping hens. They ruffled their feathers, but only one even bothered to lift her head to blink stupidly at him before ducking it back under her wing.

He re-emerged, three still-warm ovoids nestling in the front of his gi, and stood musing in the cool night, eyes raised to the starry canopy above.

_He's too caught up in this to see what I see. It's up to me to find out what I can about this man. Maybe I'm overreacting but…_

He took in a long, deep breath, and blew it out, releasing the tension of his inner debate.

_He's not going to like this…_

He turned and crossed the yard. Stepping resolutely over the threshold, into the warmth and light of his friend's house, he prepared himself for the difficult task of convincing Gozaemon to allow an investigation into his new ward.

_

* * *

A/N: I should probably mention that Mareo's name means "uncommon". He is really not your run-of-the-mill samurai of that era, and I wanted his name to reflect that. _

_Review responses: **Conspirator:** I'm so flattered you are reading this! I love your work, and hope you will have some good advice and guidance for me! I'm amazed that people didn't know immediately from the prologue who this was about, but apparently, they didn't. I guess that's fine, but I wasn't really trying to be "sneaky" about it. In fact, I purposely wrote very obliquely because I thought it WOULD be obvious! **Omasuoniwabanshi:** "energizer bunny on steroids"—that made me laugh out loud! Spot-on description of this guy, for sure. I'm glad you liked the background; there will be more—it's one of the reasons I'm even writing this thing. **Skenshingumi:** I have somehow managed to disgust almost everybody with that "leather thing"! Oh, well… Foreshadowing, eh? I guess we'll just have to see; even I am not quite sure what's coming up on that score. Much depends on Yoshi's data-gathering, I think._


	5. Chapter 4 Roots

**Chapter 4 – Roots **

_The younger one is suspicious. I can't stay here long. I'll take what the old one gives—he knows what he's doing, and I need the healing—and then I'll leave._

His pain was much less now, thanks to the herb and the cave's cool, damp air, and his mind could think again. He had much to think about. He had been completely unprepared for his betrayal, and now had to reassess his role in Japan's future, as well as his loyalty, clearly misplaced, to those who had turned on him. His knowledge of the players, both friend and foe, of their motivations and weaknesses, and his insight into the shaky, shifting alliances that formed the unsound foundation of this new era: he had assumed all this made him invaluable, indispensable even, to the new government.

He remembered the first time he'd been contacted by the Ishin Shishi. He had actually been expecting it, had known his destiny had arrived.

* * *

"You sent for me, father?" 

His father stood in the center of the bridge spanning the garden's large koi pond. It was a spot often shared between them: lately, they preferred certainty about the confidentiality of their conversations, and they shared a soothing appreciation of the beauty of the koi and the lotus, of the faint croaks of the black-spotted pond frogs and the buzz of the darting dragonflies. Now, deep in winter, snow mounded on the pool's banks and dusted the planks of the bridge; in quiet corners, the sheen of paper-thin ice sheets reflected and refracted the pale rays of a weak, ghostly sun.

Today, Makoto could sense the difference even before his father turned to greet him: the atmosphere around Mareo was charged, almost shimmering with intensity, with spiritual heat, in spite of the chill winter air.

"Yes, son. Come with me."

Falling into easy step by his side, the young man followed. They kept a heavy silence until they reached his father's private study. Makoto had rarely entered this room: Mareo treasured his privacy and considered the sanctity of this room as the seat of his being, his soul's retreat and haven in a household grown ever larger and busier.

Which made it all the more surprising to find it occupied.

The two men perched uncomfortably on the Western-style chairs managed nevertheless to bow from the waist as Mareo entered. Mareo settled himself in the leather-upholstered chair behind his massive desk, but Makoto chose to stand.

Mareo leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk's warmly glowing surface, hands clasped loosely around his fan. "Makoto, this is Katsura Kogoro. He is the leader of the Choshu clan."

Makoto made a small bow in the direction of Katsura. He had studied the clan's activities, along with that of other factions in this time of unrest, and was impressed with the man's strength of character and clarity of vision. In spite of his family's position in the Shogunate, both father and son approved of the move to restore the Emperor to power. The irony of the ancient formal title for the shogun, Seii Taishogun, "generalissimo who overcomes the barbarians", rankled in the face of the growing intrusions onto their shores and into their politics by the West, and Shogun Togukawa Yoshinobu's appalling governmental reforms, relying so heavily as they did on assistance from France, accompanied by that ridiculous farce of a "resignation in favor of imperial restoration" had served to cement Makoto's attitude toward the raging civil war.

"Katsura-san, this is my son, Makoto." The bald statement of fact lacked any word of praise or acknowledgement; its very plainness had the effect of a solemn imperial announcement: the room seemed almost to quiver with significance of the unspoken phrase, "in whom I am well pleased."

In the silence, Katsura and Makoto regarded each other levelly.

"Makoto, Katsura-san has a request to make of you."

* * *

Now he understood that his very strengths had been his undoing: _I am a threat to them. Because I am my own master, and no one's lapdog, and they are weak and stupid, they can find no better solution than to try to eliminate me. What fools! They should have made me their leader instead!_

_Japan, and they, would have been safe now._

* * *

"I think this is completely unnecessary," Gozaemon grumbled at Yoshi, even while packing a small bag of provisions for his trip. "You haven't even been here a whole day yet! We didn't get to go fishing, and I wanted you to help me dig out that sapling that's growing too close to the coop." 

"Thanks." Yoshi took the package from Gozaemon's hands and added it to his pack. "I won't be gone long. And I promise to be discreet," he interjected quickly, heading off his friend's predictable lecture on the odd subject of the right to personal privacy.

_I'll never understand his views about that. After all, if you live a good life, why would you have anything to hide?_

"Where will you start, even? Who can you ask?" More than anything, Gozaemon simply didn't want Yoshi to leave so soon: it had been longer than usual since his previous visit, and the old man had missed him sorely this time.

_It's not like I have as many springs in me as I used to_, he thought querulously.

"You remember my telling you about Kentaro, don't you? My friend I stay with in Kyoto?"

"Is he the one who worked for the Ishin Shishi? The messenger or something?"

"Yes, that's the one. Actually, he was usually stuck in the kitchen or the stable, but he was sharp enough to be a pretty good messenger. He has the knack of moving through a crowd without being noticed, in spite of his size."

"Big fella, is he?"

"That is one of the reasons they keep him around; you know, for hauling firewood, and rice barrels, sake casks, that sort of thing." Yoshi paused and grinned at own memories of his friend. "He's also got what you might call 'excellent hearing'…"

"Listens at keyholes, does he?"

"Something like that. Anyway, he knows a lot more about their inner workings than they realize." _Just as well, for his own sake. They don't consider him any kind of a threat. Clever boy._ "Some of the stories he has …"

"Yes, I remember the ones you've told me." A sober silence settled on them. "No one's hands are clean, are they?"

"Well, exactly. Anyway, he's nothing to them, so he's slipped through the net of reprisals and purges, and seems to ride happily whatever tide comes along."

Despite Yoshi's cavalier manner, Gozaemon had the uneasy feeling they were delving into dangers beyond their usual ken, and his disappointment at his friend's premature departure dissolved into serious concern. "How can you be sure contacting him is safe now? Especially about something like this?"

Yoshi quirked a half-smile. "We both know no one can ever be sure of safety. But…" He held up his hands against Gozaemon's mouth, already opened in protest. "He is smart and crafty, and has not survived this long by luck alone."

* * *

Long before daylight, he was startled into wakefulness by the panicked voices, ineffectively muted, in the hall right outside his room. Irritated by the commotion, he threw off the futon and hauled himself out of bed. Purposely, he strode heavily across the room, and he heard the voices cease altogether as his footsteps thudded through the floor's planks, telegraphing to his disturbers the approaching storm of his displeasure. 

Roughly, he slid open the shoji. "What is going on out here?"

As one, the three men dropped to their knees, three foreheads tapping the floor almost in unison. From one of the hidden mouths came the muffled apology: "Please forgive us, Katsura-san! We didn't mean to wake you!"

Sighing heavily, he adjusted his yukata beneath its obi. "I'm sure that you did mean to do exactly that. I do wish you would simply knock the next time: I despise these juvenile charades."

The three craned their necks to turn their faces upward, but remained bent low to the ground.

"Oh, do get up and come in." The three rose, and Takashi and Toshiko managed to enter the room before Katsura stretched out his arm, his hand flat on the third man's chest stopping him abruptly in his tracks. "Not you, Tadashi-san. You can go to the kitchen and fetch us some tea."

Tadashi spun around and scuttled off, down the stairs toward the back of the inn. Katsura watch him go, a slight despondency settling into a corner of his mind.

_How did I end up surrounded by such craven…_

He snorted and turned back into his room, only to be greeted by two huddled figures on the floor. He sighed again, feeling the dull beginnings of a headache.

"Well, out with it. What's this all about?"

Takashi—or was it Toshiko, he never could keep them really straight—blurted nervously, "We couldn't find anything. You know, this morning. When we went back. I know we went to the right place, but it wasn't there!" He ducked his head back down, bumping it forcefully on the tatami.

"Went back where? What was missing? You'd better start from the beginning, man."

The door slid open, and Tadashi shuffled in bearing a tray on which rattled a steaming pot and four cups. Head down between hunched shoulders, as though fending off a beating, he knelt just inside the room, nervously filled one of the cups and held it high above his head toward Katsura.

Hardly looking at him, Katsura took the cup from the trembling hand; he was actually grateful for the fragrant brew, and he sipped deeply, then turned back to the two quivering masses in front of him.

"Get to it. Quickly!"

This time, Toshiko—or was it Takashi—lifted his head and answered, almost hiccupping with anxiety. "They did it. Last night, they did it!" He paused, and wrung his hands, and gulped. Then, in a single rush of breath: "They told Shishio-san that you wanted to see him and they hid in closets and outside the door and when he got there they blew out the candle and they jumped him and they tied him up and they took him out to the woods and they shot him." He stopped, giddy from lack of oxygen, wobbling slightly as he sat.

"What? Are you talking about Shishio? Shishio Makoto?" Katsura was livid. "I expressly forbade anyone's moving against him…"

Takashi—or Toshiko—added, helpfully, "And then they set him on fire."

Toshiko—or Takashi—added, hopefully, "We weren't there, you know."

Tadashi just sat and tried to disappear. Three cups rested completely and permanently empty on the tray in front of him.

Katsura was speechless, stunned. When they had brought him the ridiculous scheme, born of abject fear, profound misunderstanding, and a depressing lack of imagination, he had crushed the idea. He'd known that Makoto was to be denied the position he'd counted on—that even Katsura had wanted for him—but he'd always found the young man, quite contrary to common opinion, ultimately reasonable, when handled correctly. And Katsura was sure he would be able, finally, to negotiate for Makoto a slot commensurate with the talents he had to offer to the new era.

He had absolutely forbidden the action, and had even publicly reprimanded the ringleaders. He had thought the matter ended. He'd been wrong.

Now, this man, this seemingly indestructible man, this man with fire in his breast and never easy under authority other than himself, was clearly alive—Katsura had no doubt of that—and damaged and betrayed.

And out of anyone's control.

_

* * *

A/N: Just for fun, Yoshi's friend's name, Kentaro, means "sharp, big boy". Also, for a bit of whimsy, the unhappy trio who bring Katsura unwelcome news are named Tadashi, Takashi, and Toshiko just for the sound of their names; you know, sort of like Ping, Pang, and Pong, the three executioners from Puccini's opera, Turandot. Unfortunately, this affected the development of their characters, and even leaked over onto Katsura a bit; I apologize if the goofiness too much interferes or is wildly improbable given the setting. Following chapters will return to my normal over-dark, purple prose. _

_Review Responses: _

_**LadyRhiyana:** Wow, you must have read this just seconds after it was posted! I agree that Shishio's destiny was probably set early on (the nature of tragedy, after all, ne?). I'm so glad you liked the trio; they just sort of appeared and stumbled their way into the scene before I could take proper precautions. "set Kenshin on him" made me laugh out loud—a great image and a delightfully campy turn of phrase! Thanks for the review—I live for them! **Lolo popoki:** Better late than never, eh? I'm glad you like the background--I was (still am!) a bit nervous about this. You know, just making up out of whole cloth, and without anyone else's work to go on, a backstory for such a major RK character. But I'm finding it GREAT fun, so I guess I'll just keep on doing it. I, too, was a bit surprised about how the Katsura scene came out. I'd assumed Katsura was "in on it", but it came out this way, instead. There is a line in the movie "Galaxy Quest" where they've been testing a new transporter, and things go quite wrong. Someone says: "And it exploded." In context, it's hilarious. Takashi-or-Toshiko's line, "And then they set him on fire" should be read with that same delivery. **Omasuoniwabanshi:** Oooh, I have SO much I could say in response, but won't because I want to write it into upcoming chapters! So I'll just sort of "skim respond". I was really going for Shishio's arrogance here, but sort of "shrouded" in what he (as well as his father) considers his fate: the "small bow" he makes to Katsura (a clan leader, of all things!), and his attitude that "of course Katsura came to me". He certainly doesn't consider himself a "hired killer"—he's much more into the idea of his "holy purpose". As for Katsura's "not approving" of the plot to kill Shishio, I think it's more along the lines of thinking it's not smart; that any failure of the plot would result in the very monster it created. Yes, a "complex" "nasty little social Darwinist", isn't he? **Skenshingumi:** Ha! Those words are actually Omasu's, and she's speaking of Shishio instead of Katsura. It is ever true, isn't it, that one can be judged by ones compatriots, ne? I agree that the plan is fundamentally ill-suited to Katsura. However, his pragmatism would push him toward, as you put it, not giving up a strength that could still be of use to him. Maybe his arrogance would mislead him into thinking he could "manage" a force like Shishio… _


	6. Chapter 5 Allies & Other Hindrances

_A/N: I've taken liberties with history, physics, time, and Japanese culture, politics, and economics, as well as having made lavish use of serendipity and improbability and plot holes and confusing flashbacks. Other than that, I've stuck pretty close to reality. There are some links at the bottom to pages explaining a few of the concepts I butchered, in case you want to know what's really what._

**Chapter 5 – Allies & Other Hindrances**

Yoshi bumped along in the cart, cursing the road and the heat and the paucity of his purse—_this would have been so much nicer if I could have afforded a horse! Kentaro better have room for me…_

He'd spent a full day and night on the road, but, with any luck this afternoon would see him planted more comfortably in Kentaro's digs, even though they were just two cramped rooms in Kyoto's seedier section of row houses. It had been quite a while now—_what? about six months?_—since he'd last seen his friend, and he was eager to catch up with him, as well as really needing his information network.

Taku Kentaro had come into his life with a bang. Literally.

* * *

The Gion_ matsuri_ had been spectacularly successful that year. At least, it had been so for Yoshi. He'd been drunk almost continuously from the first day, and, so far as he could remember, had been jailed only once, on a truly unfair charge: how could he possibly have known that that particular girl was the police chief's daughter? She hadn't looked so very official, and his inebriated state had prevented his taking proper precautions: her chaperones had him in custody before he could even finish the excellent pick-up line that had just popped into his head. 

_Oh, well, I only missed two days of the festival and they didn't beat me and it was good to start drinking again with a clear head…_

The last day of the festival arrived, and the general atmosphere, already at fever pitch, fairly quivered with anticipation: this year, for the first time in nearly a decade, all twenty-nine districts would be entering a float, each one desperate to win one of the five prizes: this year, the prizes were worth competing for. No "fan of historical significance" or "kimono worn by the Great Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu, himself"—this year, the prize was gold, and plenty of it!

Shogun Tokugawa Iesada, in a transparent move by his advisors to bolster his slipping power and to misdirect focus from his mental instability, was to award, in person, a standard rice measure filled with gold _ryo _to the ruling _daimyo_ of the five districts entering the most beautiful floats. To a petty lord, strapped for cash by the Shogun's dictates to maintain lavish residences both in the home district and in Edo, this prize would relieve much of his burden.

In any case, the competition was great. Hopeful hands had woven dreams of respite from the yearly rice tax into each of the symbolic flags decorating the floats, and many sincere prayers went into making the three hundred and nine candle-lanterns that would form the mammoth four-sided pyramid of light to grace each float, to be shouldered with practiced precision by a team of one hundred chanting, shouting men, for the nighttime parade.

The lanterns for the float from the district of Kitakuwada—an outlying area generally considered to be "the sticks"—would turn out to be fueled with a bit more.

Kentaro and two of his fellow revelers, all natives of Miyama, the smallest village in this most insignificant of districts, knew a good idea when they thought one up. After all, how could their poor, scrubby district hope to compete with the floats from the richer areas? No, they needed something really special, something that would set their float distinctly apart from all twenty-eight other floats.

And Kentaro, the inveterate finagler and consummate barterer, knew how to get his hands on just the thing: gunpowder. The Ishin Shishi's gunpowder, in fact.

Really, they weren't going to use much—although none of them had any actual experience with what constituted "much", much less, "too much"—and it would make such an impressive display.

Yoshi had been resting against a low wall, just catching his breath from a particularly satisfying meal, when his bleary mind became aware of the soft scuffle of activity just a few feet from him. Focusing with difficulty, he recognized the furtive glances, the guilty body language, and he found himself drawn irresistibly to the small group.

It was an impressive sight: three hundred and nine large, red, still-dark lanterns, arrayed over thirty-five square yards around the float, all alone, the guards having slipped away to join in the celebrations. In the relative dark, four stealthy figures picked their way among the rows, stooping over and surreptitiously dropping something into each.

_What are they doing?_

His curiosity drove him incautiously right into their midst, and he slurred at them, in wobbly delight and a bit too loudly: "Hey! What's going on?"

At once, four startled faces snapped up toward him and, almost at that same instant, the fireworks began, flooding the area with garish red and green and white and blue light. In this sign from above, the five seemed to recognize kindred spirits, and a bond was formed.

Ah, that moment, that exquisite moment when their careful, excellent plan consummated. The guards returned, stacked the lanterns onto the float, and began to light them, each guard beginning at a corner. They moved rhythmically along the row, just touching long, glowing kindling sticks to the candlewick inside before moving to the next. Just as they began on the next higher tier, the powder in the first lanterns caught.

Gunpowder, when not contained or otherwise under pressure, doesn't explode—it merely burns. Just burns, that's all. Burns fizzily, sloppily, uncontrollably, popping and whizzing and scattering bright sparks wide in all directions. Including upward. Up into the bottoms of the second tier of lanterns. The paper covering for lanterns is many things—beautiful, translucent, colorful—but, curiously enough, not particularly resistant to flame.

Each new lantern, as it added its sparks and heat and light to the spectacle, set off the ones above it. The exponential growth of the massive pyre overshadowed even the fireworks' brilliant finale, and an admiring crowd quickly formed.

* * *

It was one of his prouder memories. To this day, that year's festival was talked about in hushed tones of awe and reverence. 

He could never remember with any clarity exactly how he'd been scooped up along with that group—he'd thought he could run faster and look more innocent than that; perhaps the density of the crowd had hindered him—but during the subsequent week, with the four of them jammed into their dark, humid, vermin-infested cell—it was high summer, after all—he and Kentaro had cemented a friendship that would last them the rest of their lives.

_And now I bring trouble to his door._

This inquiry would require some delicacy, even for Kentaro, Yoshi was certain of that. His gut told him that the miserable creature in the cave was not just a random victim of circumstance—the spirit was too strong and the wounds too bizarre—and he sincerely hoped Kentaro would know something useful without having to resort to actual, dangerous sleuthing: Yoshi was a firm subscriber to "the better part of valor".

* * *

As he languished, recuperating, impatient, he could feel time flowing past him, could practically hear the rush of it outside the mouth of his dark prison. 

_Time to move, time to plan, time to gather allies…_

He cast about in his mind. He could, of course, no longer trust so much as a single soul with whom he had been acquainted during the past two years, no one who had assisted him in his nightly duties, no one who had plotted with him or spied for him or diverted for him.

He was alone, absolutely on his own.

Ironically, one of the faces that came to him was of that snake, Iizuka—his first assignment. At the time, he'd not inquired into the man's identity—much less the reason he was no longer necessary—but later, after Katsura had returned to some semblance of his former power, and had taken to going about under heavy guard, he'd heard rumors, snippets of conversation, hints of history, and he'd pieced it together: his predecessor had been betrayed.

He had heard about the massacre at the Ikedaya, and knew that in the aftermath the clan and its retainers had scattered, hiding among the populations in outlying villages. Apparently, Katsura had arranged false identities for some of the more valuable operatives. For this shadow assassin there had been a woman and a "profession"—a seller of medicines, perhaps?—but something had gone wrong. As with most betrayals, it was now impossible to untangle the alliances and double-crosses, but the woman had been killed, the shadow assassin had been neutralized, and enough blame had fallen on Iizuka to place him squarely into Shishio's hands.

He hadn't known what had become of the betrayed assassin, but Makoto liked thinking about it, liked flexing his certainty of how different it would have been had it been himself, liked reveling in his superior strength of character. He had known—absolutely—that he had no weaknesses, and certainly not any associated with any person, especially a woman. Even his familial ties were safe: not only were they deeply hidden, known only to Katsura and two of his closest confidants, but no one in his family—_nor even in my household_— would ever allow him or herself to be used against their own will: strength ran deep and pure within their blood.

…_nor even in my household…_

Now his thoughts ran in quite a different direction.

His father had inspired fierce and unswerving loyalty among his retainers—yes, he'd demanded it, but he'd also deserved it, had proven himself worthy of trust, perhaps even of blind faith. Many were the men who had given themselves unreservedly in his service, and had prospered by it. These men had been brought close in to the household; his father had brought whole families within the protection and purview of his authority and dominance.

One family, that of the petty samurai Sadojima, had entered the Shishio household with a boy almost exactly Makoto's age, and when they were both quite young. While they had never formed a friendship, the esteem in which Sadojima-chan held his young master had been clear; indeed, the boy seemed to live for little else than to garner favor with Makoto.

As he grew, the youth showed a remarkable drive and ability to manage, to plan, to supervise. He had sought, and was granted, permission to oversee all household matters pertaining to Makoto: he prescribed Makoto-sama's wardrobe, seeking and accepting only the finest silks and embroideries; harried the kitchen regarding Makoto-sama's favorite dishes, whether in season or not; ensured the perfection of the candles in Makoto-sama's rooms and the quality of Makoto-sama's sparring partners. In short, he designed and orchestrated every detail of Makoto-sama's daily life. Including, even, midnight trysts with girls, of which there were many willing ones—landing a prize such as the _daimyo's_ dazzling and desirable son blinded many an unfortunate maid to what was really going on when Sadojima-kun showed up deep in the night, banging on the gates of the chosen one's household, demanding to speak to the cowering, but naively hopeful, father.

In fact, life as a hitokiri for the patriots, even as Katsura's most effective and treasured weapon, required an adjustment period for the pampered young noble. He had never let anyone see it, but arranging for his own laundry and eating whatever the kitchen put out that day had truly rattled him. Not for long, but he remembered that time with resentment—_never again!_—as well as the sting of humiliation he'd felt when he'd first carried his own clothes in his own hands down the back hallway to the common laundry room and had to talk with the washing women himself.

No, things were going to be different from here on out. He was rid—_and well-rid!_—of the Ishin Shishi, that just-too-prosaic rabble, along with any obligation of loyalty he had professed. He was no longer burdened with furthering the ambitions of others—now he felt completely free to pursue his own dreams, his own plans.

To craft his own destiny.

* * *

"All I know are a few rumors. After the big blow-up, everything was covered up pretty quickly. Lots of men just disappeared—not even their bodies were found." 

"What 'big blow-up'?"

The two men were huddled over a bottle of bad sake in a dark corner of an otherwise-deserted eatery in the shabbiest part of town. They'd considered it would be the safest place to discuss their sensitive business.

Kentaro hesitated. "Look, this was a big, bad deal. Katsura nearly went off his head. I'm sure you've heard of 'The Four Butchers'?"

Breathlessly, Yoshi nodded his assent, chilled at this turn of the conversation, remembering the dread label the mere whisper of which wrapped cold fear around the heart of every person who heard it, guilty and innocent alike: "Heaven's Revenge".

"Well, there was a fifth—a sort of 'shadow assassin'—who operated even more secretly than that group. The first one of those seems to have gone off his nut at some point, and a replacement was recruited."

Kentaro paused, and Yoshi prompted, "Well?"

Kentaro took a deep breath, as if deciding just how far he wanted to go into the story he'd pieced together, then plunged ahead.

"After the Emperor was restored, Katsura found ways to use The Butchers—and I'm not going to get into that!" he shuddered, but continued: "—but the replacement was not so easily put off. Apparently, he'd had ambitions, ambitions for real power, and wouldn't be contained. The entire headquarters were terrified of him—men were simply staying away, not showing up for days on end—and some dumb-asses got the bright idea of offing him."

Yoshi's jaw dropped. "What? They were going to try to assassinate an assassin?" He shook his head in disbelief.

Kentaro smirked. "Exactly! Katsura practically took their heads off himself, and actually disowned the leaders, cast them right out into the street; they didn't last long, I can tell you that! He said he had plans to take care of the problem, and that everybody should just calm down."

Shrugging, he continued, "And that seemed to be that. For a few days."

Yoshi re-filled Kentaro's cup, then his own. "Just a few days?"

"One morning, a couple of Katsura's lap-dogs ran into the complex, flapping around and running off at the mouth about some disaster, some body they couldn't find." Kentaro hitched his bench closer to the table between them and leaned over even further. When he spoke, his voice was so low Yoshi had to put his ear nearly right at the other man's lips to make out what he was saying.

"They'd done it! The idiots had managed to ambush him. How they found enough men fool enough to go along I'll never know—personally, I think most of them were ignorant paid thugs. Anyway, here was their clever plan: they were going to shoot him in the head and then set him on fire."

Yoshi's insides began to roil with uneasiness.

_Gozaemon… !_

"They managed to carry out their plan, but so ineptly that the guy seems to have survived." Kentaro sat back, relieved of the heavier part of his story. "At any rate, no body has been found, even though they've been looking steadily ever since."

"Ever since…" Yoshi swallowed, his mouth dry and cottony. "And how long, exactly, is that?"

Kentaro glanced up at him sharply. "About three weeks now. Why? What's wrong?"

Yoshi leaned his elbows heavily on the table and propped his face in his hands, rubbing clammy sweat off his face and up into his hairline. He sighed raggedly.

"I think I know where he is."

_

* * *

matsuri : festival _

_ryo : an Edo-era measure of currency; a not insignificant amount all by itself_

_daimyo : a ruling samurai lord_

_Some links:_

_RE the festival : http/www(dot)city(dot)kitakyushu(dot)jp/english/09culture/ _

_http/en(dot)wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/TobataGionYamagasafestival_

_RE the Shoguns : http/en(dot)wikipedi(dot)org/wiki/Shoguns_


	7. Chapter 6 Tempus Fugit: Carpe That Diem

_A/N: I've reposted every single chapter, in order to name them, and to include some corrections and a small bit of character development. Just in case you're interested..._

**Chapter 6 – Tempus Fugit: Carpe That Damn Diem**

_Why do thoughts of that boy, that Kenshin, trouble me? That was over a year ago. I hope this doesn't mean he's in difficulty…_

The old man busies himself with the man's latest requests: a large store of bandages, sandals, a cloak. And, naturally, he would have asked for a blade of some kind. Gozaemon could tell he was planning to be on his way—_really, he needs at least another two weeks before I should let him go!_—and you couldn't expect someone in his condition to travel without some kind of weapon.

_Where is that wakizashi Yoshi gave me…?_

* * *

He has to remain calm, has to think clearly, has has has to take care of everything. Can't afford to leave any necessary arrangement untended to. 

There are horses to rent; Kentaro has to get leave from his master—_in the middle of the night, yet!_ And where can they get guns? They've got to have guns: neither one of them has any skill with a sword—_much good it's done me, working with them day in and out_—and they can't take the chance of arriving with only their fists as defense.

_Thank the fortunes he doesn't have a sword—that would just about do us in!_

He shudders at the thought. And, his old friend alone with that demon…! It stops him in his tracks, and his chest constricts sharply with dread. It takes all his self-control to keep his mind focused on the tasks at hand.

"I said, how long will you need them for?"

Yoshi snaps back to the present to find the stable master standing in front of him holding out the reins of the only two horses available at this hour and on such short notice.

"Oh… ah…" He hasn't thought about that, hasn't thought about the "after". _Let's see, the trip home takes all day when it's light—it's after midnight now—if we push it, noon tomorrow—then a half-day to ride back—but how long until we can even think about bringing the horses back?_ His head whirls under the pressure of the unaccustomed calculations combined with the black hole of the task that lies ahead of them. _Better play it safe…_

"A week?"

Aghast, the stable master splutters, "A week? You want to keep these horses for a week! What if the owner needs them? What do I tell him?"

"I know! I'm sorry! Forgive me… I just… It's hard to say how long we'll need… But we really… Look, what do you want? Do you want more money?" He thrusts his money bag at the man, his head feeling like it will explode—they need to be on the road—this delay is killing him! _Where is Kentaro? He said he wouldn't be long…_

* * *

Summer is almost over; he feels autumn in the brisker morning air and in the chill of the now almost daily rain showers. The better part of most days now finds him outside the cave—though still in the shade of the trees surrounding the meadow's hot greenery—stretching his cramped muscles and loosening his frozen joints, endlessly running through his kata, obsessively evaluating and re-evaluating his future, still almost unable to really believe that he'd been rejected. 

He knows where he is, and calculates he'll be able to make it to his father's complex in just over three days. He knows he won't be able to remain there for long—_even Katsura's morons could figure that out!_—but he'll be able to gather a few loyal men—_Houji will be invaluable_—and adequate supplies.

_And I need to take counsel from chichi._

Uncertainty ripples through him at the thought of his father. It has been so long, and so much has happened since they last spoke. How much does his father know? Will he approve?

_Surely he will help me…_

* * *

The household is quiet these days, subdued, not yet quite grieving. Even though the master can no longer rise from his bed, the dim and quiet and stillness of his chamber seep through the house like an oppressive fog, shutting out light, dampening conversation. Staff speak in whispers, the windows are shuttered, visitors, even those bearing tokens of sympathy and condolence—after all, what if he were to recover?—are turned away at the gate. A rude gesture, it's true, but who would dare to raise an objection? 

Mareo realizes how short his time is. Knew even when he'd first summoned his healer that it was too late, had felt for some time the hot rot gnawing at his gut, had managed to hide his diminishing appetite, his fading and shrinking body, the clouding of his mind.

Gradually—_but not too gradually_—he's ordered his affairs: catching up the records of debts owed to him, clearing a few social obligations with gifts of kimono and fine silks, reviewing and revising his written instructions for how his estate is to be entailed for his son.

His son.

Just two days ago, his man, the one known to no one but himself, hidden among the servants as just another food server, had returned. The news is disquieting, but neither of them believes the common explanation: that forest animals had ravaged the assassination site, dragging the burnt carcass deep into the hills. That the betrayal had been successful. His man had picked up rumors circulating in the bars, rumors that convinced him of the young master's survival, convince them both that, though perhaps injured, he is safely on the run.

He will return home. The trick now is to prepare to hide him from his pursuers, as surely there will be.

But that was two days ago…

_Makoto. Where are you?_

* * *

Can it be true? Is it possible that his long deprivation is over? Giddy with hope, hoping against hope, Houji opens the door he's avoided for nearly a year, begins to ready the neglected room for its occupant's return, hardly daring to believe he might be needed again by him, his true master, that the time of his—their!—ascendancy might be at hand. 

For, surely, he is returning in triumph.

_

* * *

chichi : familiar for "father"—implies a strong, intimate bond _


	8. Chapter 7 Silent Night

**Chapter 7 – Silent Night**

_Time to move._

The moon is new, a bare sliver. Even this feeble light is dimmed, filtered by stringy clouds slithering their way across the inky sky. A restlessness in the air stirs the forest canopy and sets on edge nocturnal creatures, hunter's glowing eyes and preys' cautious feet alike tending more intently to their respective tasks.

The dense darkness and the dry whisper of leaves served to further mask his already expert stealth. His nerves, too, were pricked, but by more than the night's disquiet. He felt the now-familiar tingle of impending betrayal. Not from the old man—_curious that the old one, wiser though he seems, was the easier to deceive_—but from the younger. Makoto had recognized, during that one visit, the sizing up, the mistrustful eye, the wait-and-see attitude that had been somehow missing, right from the start, in his old nurse.

He'd spent the next days calling on every reserve in his body, in his spirit, to speed his healing enough to leave. He was certain the younger one would take actions, if only to uncover his identity, and he couldn't risk that. Too many ears were still on alert regarding his disappearance, and questions about someone with his distinctive injuries would trigger alarms that would narrow his escape window.

During this morning's visit from the old man, Makoto had spelled out what he would need for his journey, watching for signs of hesitation, of reluctance. Watched for signs that he would need to take action on his own behalf.

* * *

"_And I'll need a blade, too. Not a katana, something smaller, more concealable."_

"_Are you sure about this? You're hardly able to walk…"_

"_I'm the judge of that. Just get me what I need. By tomorrow."_

_Clearly unhappy with the speed of the schedule, the old man fidgeted, and fiddled with his sacks and bottles._

"_Look, couldn't you wait at least another week? I could arrange to have one of the village boys travel with you for a few days. You could use someone to help you with your bandages and…"_

_He'd leaned in menacingly toward the man, could feel for himself his body temperature rising, radiating his determination. And the threat he presented was palpable between them: Gozaemon's eyes widened and, unconsciously, he shrank back._

"_Don't push me, old man! I'm leaving, and alone. If you breathe so much as a word about me after I'm gone…"_

_He could smell the fear and defeat as Gozaemon shifted away from him a little. That was more like it—he was going to get what he wanted, and with a minimum of fuss._

"_All right." The old man straightened his posture, trying to reclaim a shred of his dignity, to reassert a bit of control. "But I'm going to pack you plenty of food."_

_Makoto smirked to himself in the dark of the cave. 'Let the fool do what he wants, just so long as he comes across with that blade…'_

* * *

But as the day wore on, he could no longer deny his unease about the younger companion. He'd guessed that the man was nervous about him, and, later, he'd felt him leave the village. This by itself, the returning strength of his sensing abilities, had told him he was well enough to travel. 

Ever since his betrayal—as he recovered, had felt his foundation knitting itself back together—he'd noticed unusual changes in himself. His mind worked faster than it had before, spinning at a fantastic rate, and his muscles responded now to his wishes almost before he even had a chance to fully formulate then.

And his sensing, well, that was the most remarkable of all. He could track every person in the village far below his cave, could sense them clearly and individually. He knew not only where each one was and what each was feeling, but found that, without straining himself, could predict what was going to happen next in each house, on each street corner. In fact, he could hardly free himself of their presence in his head…

He felt in high gear, exhilarated—it put him in mind of that summer with chi-chi...

Once, in his youth, his father had taken him to the slopes of the mighty Tennozan-san, a summer spent hunting and training in the shadow of the mountain looming over the confluence of the three great rivers of his homeland: the Katsuragawa, the Ujigawa and the Kizugawa. The crashing roar as these waters battled for supremacy echoed through the surrounding canyons and hillsides, and could be heard for miles, the spray and mist thrown up from their roiling collision rising like steam high into the sky, marking the location like a warning sign. It made the hunt challenging because the native animals were attuned to it, their hearing modified to listen beyond it, and he and his father had had to work hard to overcome this handicap. They had barely kept themselves fed during the first few weeks, and it had been touch-and-go a couple of times—he still remembered that deer they had brought down together, working in concert on separate sides of a small canyon, senses crazily sharpened with hunger. Her eyes had not yet glazed over when they got to her—hooves trembling as the last of her life drained out of her—but they hadn't waited. They fell on her with their _ken nata_ and slit her open from gullet to belly, their hunting knives slashing away chunks of steaming flesh and cramming it into their mouths, heedless of the hot blood dripping down their forearms, desperate and breathless and unthinking. That night, they slept as men pulled from the brink, and awakened as different creatures: just a little wilder, just a little less civilized.

Just a little stronger.

Yes, these new strengths were exhausting, but he was yet weak from his injuries—he had much healing to go, and he could feel his strength surging back almost hourly.

_This will be useful._

In fact, it already had proved useful—he had detected in his spirit the argument far below him between the two friends the previous evening, and had guessed it was about him. The next morning, he had known exactly why the younger man took the road to Kyoto.

_He's got to go by wagon—so much the better for me_, he'd smirked to himself as he sat in the opening of the cave, fingering the long, thin shank of the pipe the old man had provided, enjoying the quite excellent tobacco and taking in the meadow's activities. It had been as good a backdrop as any for his thoughts, and the colors and the sunlight and the gentle comings and goings of the meadow's denizens, while perhaps unappreciated in the ordinary way for their beauty and testament to summer's life and force, had served to help him focus his scattered senses on his own needs: his immediate plans to get away, to get to safety.

To get home.

He'd decided he wouldn't wait for tomorrow's visit—he would go down the mountain himself under cover of night and take what he needed. He'd risen and knocked the pipe free of tobacco and stood, stretching in the noonday sun before turning back and ducking into the cave.

_I'll sleep now—tonight will be long._

* * *

Gozaemon popped the rest of his rice ball into his mouth and absent-mindedly wiped his fingers on the hem of his _gi_. It had taken him the rest of the afternoon after coming back down off the mountain to gather and pack the supplies the man had requested—_had ordered_—and he was of half a mind to return to the cave now just to get them out of his hair. He was beginning to have vague misgivings about his rescued one, and he couldn't place them, and it made him queasy. 

He kept thinking about his other rescue that had stayed so long in his heart—the young boy sent by Yoshi, scrawny, weak, so nearly at death's door that Gozemon had sat up over him all that first night, really expecting him to simply slip away before morning. He'd been almost surprised then when, with the dawn, his bleary eyes had met with such force from those queer violet ones, suddenly open and watching him from the still-inert body on the futon, awake how long he couldn't say, but awake and alive and… surviving.

He missed that one. There was something that lingered long after the boy himself had gone—a feeling of destiny and hardship and burden bravely borne. He hadn't felt anything like that since he'd sent Yoshi himself off to battles—had unwillingly sent him, but had seen that there was no stopping him.

He shook his head at the folly of youth—_and those not so young, so what is their excuse?_

When Yoshi had returned, he'd been disturbingly different, and Gozaemon had feared, for quite a long time, that his young friend was lost to him forever. Hardened, silent, unresponsive, Yoshi kept to himself, sleeping mostly out-of-doors and spending his days hunting or simply wandering in the surrounding countryside.

This was when Gozaemon developed the habit of taking his pipe outside for his evening smoke, spending the long evenings sitting where he knew the red glow could be seen in the dark night from deep within the forest and far over the slanting meadows, knew that he was being watched, even stalked, Yoshi waiting to see how long it would take before he gave up and went back inside, took his pipe and his acceptance and his hospitality with him and closed his back door for good.

Many weeks passed with only faith in his friend's good heart rewarding his patience. Many more weeks of small signs showing the young man's gradual nearness, a familiar footprint beside the well, the neighbor's damned dog's small whimper of welcome deep in the night. Many weeks until he heard, just barely, like the passing of a spirit, perhaps felt more than heard, a warmth at his side, a presence beside him in the dark.

No words passed between them, and he didn't come the next night, but Gozaemon had relaxed a bit, knowing that now it was just a matter of time. And that time had passed ever more quickly: Yoshi was naturally sunny and strong, and his spirit simply would not be held down so permanently. Not four moons had traversed the sky before he was back in Gozaemon's cottage, snoring through the night in his own inimical fashion, tromping in at eventide shedding dirt clods and leaves from the day's hunt, gambling with the men and wobbling home tipsy and happy and normal.

_Would that were what awaited Kenshin…_

But he had a feeling that Kenshin's path back to happiness would be long and rocky—he could only hope that there would be those along the way to pick up him when he faltered and feed his soul when he withered.

As for what awaited the man on the mountain—_I still don't know his name! What's wrong with me?—_ He shuddered a little inside and turned back to the last of his evening meal. He picked up his bowl and hashi and teacup, took them over to the bowl he used for washing—washing dishes, washing _gi_, washing rice… washing himself—and cleaned them out.

_No, I'll wait until tomorrow. It's late and I'm so tired…_

He busied himself for a few minutes around the room: banking the fire in the stove, changing out of his day clothes into his heavy, quilted _yukata_, kneeling for a moment before the shrine in the corner.

He pulled out his _futon_ and spread it on the floor near the iron stove, the much-appreciated, long-ago gift from a grateful Yoshi. Even though it was still summer, and the nights warm, Gozaemon was increasingly aware of his age, and of how even the gentle cool of summer nights crept into his joints and muscles. He tried not to think about that as he crept under the warm _futon_ top, tried not to regret his inevitable leaving, tried not to be greedy—he'd had so much, so many years, so much love, so much adventure,

So much life.

_It's a long time till next spring…_

He blew out the candle near him and settled down into the night. The night breeze rustled the tree in the back yard—he'd always like that sound, found it comforting, homey.

Outside, the neighbor's damned dog whimpered, but not with welcome.


	9. Chapter 8 No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

**Chapter 8 – No Good Deed Goes Unpunished**

The road surged beneath them, the landscape rushing past like a mighty river, the roar of the wind in his ears nearly drowning the thunder of hooves. Yoshi clung to Kentaro's back with terrified determination, grateful for the serendipitous turn of events that had placed him behind the saddle instead of in it. Never a confident rider, he had been desperately screwing up his courage for the long, hurried ride back in the dark on a strange horse.

Kentaro, bless his connected, conniving, persuasive little soul, had turned up, not only in short order, but with experienced and eager companions. These men knew how to ride, and their horses knew how to run, gathering up the miles like breathing in smoke, barely skimming the surface of the road, tails and manes streaming straight out behind them and nostrils flared and snorting and gulping air.

* * *

He'd just left his superior's rooms after half an hour's heavy explaining about his need for leave. Sweat lightly beaded his forehead and upper lip—the request, its suddenness and timing, had bordered on insubordination, and he didn't need that. Again. 

He padded along the deserted _engawa_, past doorways half-open against the sultry night, out of which rose the sounds of a sleeping army: snores, grunts, the shuffling of bedclothes, farts. This environment suited him, never knowing what the dawn would bring, the challenge of survival in the narrow culture of constant war, seeking the next battle, the next opportunity to prove oneself, to take a bit of ground against the opposition.

With a short leap, he cleared the short flight of steps down to ground level, landing lightly, the gravel barely crunching beneath his feet.

A low, quiet voice from the shadows: "Hey."

"Chiko! Don't do that—I nearly jumped out of my skin!"

"Sorry." Neither of them mistook this grunted word for an apology. Kentaro's old Ishin comrade-in-arms lounged against the post next to the stairs, arms crossed and head down. He jerked himself out of his slouch and crossed the distance between them. "What's going on?"

"Let me catch my breath. Damn, that really scared me."

"Yeah, yeah." The man laid a heavy hand on Kentaro's shoulder and shook it convincingly. "Come on, what are you up to now?"

"Shhh! Not here." Kentaro turned and jerked his head for Chiko to follow. "Come with me—I'll tell you on the way."

By the time they crossed the open yard and reached the small passage-door in the compound's massive entry gate, Chiko had taken over the conversation.

"You can't do this alone." Cutting short Kentaro's protest that he wasn't really alone, Chiko continued. "Are you forgetting who this is? You know the stories. I don't know this Yoshi of yours, but I know you and, unless your friend is a swordsman to rival the Battousai, you haven't a prayer against this bastard. In fact, even if your friend is the Battousai, you haven't a prayer! Wasn't he fired or something?"

They stood in deep shadow, the heavy wood of the tiny, three-sided shelter that housed the passage-door muffling their urgent whispers. Behind them, under the sliver of a moon, a breeze shuffled dry leaves over the courtyard's gravel surface. Through the floor of the guardhouse above filtered the noises of the night watch's surreptitious gambling and guttural laughter over earthy jokes.

Kentaro felt the decision click over inside him. He knew perfectly well what threats lay ahead this night and day, and he'd been torn between allowing others to put themselves in harm's way and turning up to face the most dangerous man in Japan with only a tsuba-maker and an old geezer as comrades in arms.

But now…

"Okay. Thanks!" Now that the decision was made, he was all impatience and adrenalin. "When can we leave? It's a long ride back and…"

"It's not so long when you know the way and how to ride it." Chiko grinned, and the dark pleasure in that grin made a shiver run down even Kentaro's adventure-hardened spine. "Give me a few minutes—I know just the boys for this little jaunt…"

* * *

These men also knew their prey. No bumbling, wooly-headed fools, they knew exactly who and what had been loosed upon the world by the mangled assassination attempt. The little posse rode in grim single-mindedness, too experienced a team to need many words, too wise in the ways of battle to release tension in idle chatter. 

Yoshi had no idea where they were. These were roads he'd never seen—even the meanderings required by his trade had missed these tortuous, hilly trails—but, clearly, both men and horses were well-acquainted with them. He could tell by the stars, however, that they were following a very nearly crow-flight path to the village.

_That's curious. I wonder if there are secret backroads like this to everywhere…_

The sky had dulled to the starless flat black of pre-dawn, and he wondered how much longer... His mind set up a little chant, in rhythm with the thudding hooves beneath him: _be in time, be in time, please please be in time._

* * *

In the night breeze, the rustling of the big tree's leafy late-summer canopy blotted out most other noise. Only the dog's apprehensive whimpers could be heard, carrying clearly across the back yard from the house next door. 

Gozaemon woke with a start. He woke as from out of a spell, a spell cast that first day in his meadow's cave, that first time he'd looked into those hot, slitted eyes and felt their owner's spirit reach out and command him. He sat up and sucked air like a man surfacing from the depths, like a man escaping a watery grave.

_What have I been doing?_

All at once, it was clear to him. While he'd slept, his clever mind, his good soul, and his strong heart had finally put it all together, had figured it out and jerked him out of his slumber: the malaise that had plagued him all summer, the dulled pricking of his inner warning bells, the feeling of impending trouble.

And, just as suddenly, hitting him like a body blow, he realized that he—he, Gozaemon, the independent thinker, the one too smart to be manipulated by fools!—was in the process of assisting the evil thing in the cave, had been nurturing and nursing and abetting a demon.

It had to be stopped. Was it too late? Could he do it alone?

Was there time?

* * *

Makoto stood outside the cottage, breathing a little hard—_still out of shape, dammit!_—and considering his options. 

Because he'd never actually traveled from the cave to the village, had had to rely on his sensing abilities alone which, while devilishly sharp, were no substitute for knowing the path, it had taken him much longer than he'd allowed to find the old man's place—now he was pressed for time. The steel-grey sky above him warned him of the approaching dawn, and he'd wanted to be provisioned and well away from the settlement before light.

_Before the alarm can be raised._

He knew he could, even weaponless and in his weakened state, take on any attackers, perhaps best even a small group, but it would be a waste of his time. He didn't need sensing abilities to know what was on its way, to be fully aware of the threat surely even now hurrying to intercept him.

_And they'll be well-armed._

The thought of what that meant, the memories of what it had meant before, caused his scars to twinge and his head to hurt.

_No. Best to make this quick and quiet._

Certain now, he crossed the yard to the door at the back of the house and cautiously pushed it open. He stepped inside, leaving it ajar, and surveyed the room. In the far corner to his right, the dully-glowing stove heated the room too much for his likes, but its light illuminated quite nicely the rest of the space. He could make out the _futon_ on the floor in front of the stove—_how does he stand this heat?_—and the pack on the table to his left.

He slid silently across the smooth, worn floor to the table and began to examine the contents of the pack. It was obvious from his first touch that the shape was wrong—_no blade?_—and he felt his anger spike. _That's the only thing I asked him for that really matters…_

He turned on his heel and, in two long, thudding strides, reached the _futon_, not caring now if he woke the old geezer, caring only that he'd been crossed, driven only by the desire, the need to arm himself. He stood over the old man, trembling with anger, his frustration rising in a growl at the back of his throat. The soft, raspy breathing mocked him, and he aimed a vicious kick at the middle of the motionless lump.

"Wake up!" he demanded, hands clenched at his sides. "Where is that blade?"

But the lump didn't move, didn't so much as twitch.

"I said 'get up'!" He aimed a second, much harder kick, at the old man's head.

There was not even a break in the breathing rhythm.

_What…?_

In the growing light, he bent over and grabbed the lump by the shoulders—_I'll shake it out of his bones, if I have to!_ But he lifted only limp, unresisting _futon_. No sleeping body. No ancient bones creaking in his powerful grip. Stupefied, feeling ridiculous and furious and slightly insane, he stood stock-still, frozen in place for a moment, the bedding trailing from his outstretched arms like a load of sad laundry.

"Don't move."

Behind him, from the direction of the voice he both recognized and didn't recognize, unexpectedly steady and steely and sure, came a click he mostly certainly did recognize. Spinning around, he swept his fiery gaze over the tiny interior, until it finally came to rest on the shadow huddled behind the door he'd left ajar—a shadow dark and fuzzy except for the tell-tale glinting along the barrel of a large handgun.

Gozaemon stepped out, away from the door, one hand holding the gun steady, the other at his side, gripping the _saya_ of a _wakizashi_. "I've been so blind, such a fool…" he began.

"Then turn from that and give me what I need!" Makoto's voice sliced through the air like a blade. He could tell the old man was not confident with a gun, and if he could just get a little closer… Locking Gozaemon with a demanding gaze and without really taking a step, he edged his feet along the floor. His arm twitched in anticipation, and he restrained, preparing for the final lunge across the distance separating them.

"No! Stop! I don't…" Gozaemon's voice cracked with tension, fear, a touch of panic as Makoto sprang at him, deadly accurate as he snatched at the gun. The gun went off, the explosion stunning both their hearing in the enclosed space, before they fell together, a single mass of tumbling, writhing limbs and desperately grappling hands, the _wakizashi_ skittering across the floor to come to rest under the stove.

* * *

Yoshi had been uncertain of the route they had taken, but when the topped the ridge, he recognized it—Gozaemon's meadow. _Good god, we're here!_ His heart leapt within him to think they might actually make it…

* * *

Makoto stood straddling the inert form on the floor, gasping for breath, his joints and skin screaming at him. The struggle had been more difficult than he would have imagined, and he'd finally wrenched the gun away and pistol-whipped the stubborn old man. 

_There, you old trouble-maker, that'll teach you a lesson!_

With grim satisfaction, he stilled his breathing, took careful aim at the grey head, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Uncertainty of route, recognition of the meadow, hope for their timely arrival—all this faded into insignificance when that shot rang out, echoing around them from the mountains behind them. Yoshi's fists clutched convulsively on Kentaro's ribs, and Kentaro grunted in response, but the only reactions from the rest of the group were a sudden tensing of shoulders, heads lifted in the direction of the sound, and the response of the horses as heels dug simultaneously into sweaty flanks. 

They had reached the edge of the meadow—_we'll pass the cave on our way there_, Yoshi grimaced at his certain knowledge that the cave was empty—they were too late for that option. They flew across it, hooves tearing up chunks of dewy grass and flowers still closed for the night, a leafy wake settling gently behind them, and thundered down the path that was so narrow they had to ride single-file.

Yoshi could hardly breathe. He prayed to every spirit, every god, every demon he had ever heard about, a wordless prayer, only a cry from the heart. Who had been holding that gun when it went off?

He craned his neck around Kentaro's broad shoulder to make out the village ahead of them. In the rosy dawn, the buildings glowed pink and peach and yellow, and he could see people milling in the streets near Gozaemon's house, wakened by the shot and the thunder of their approaching posse. Jiggled as he was by the horse's gait, he couldn't really tell much about the little cottage. Then the path turned a little and his heart sank within him: the back door was standing open…

* * *

Nothing. No explosion, no flash of light, no puff of smoke. He was stunned at first, but then he started to chuckle at the irony of it. The chuckle grew into a belly-laugh, then an uncontrollable guffaw, stinging, salty tears streaming down his cheeks, soaking the bandages there. He laughed at the absurdity of the situation, at the old man's foolishness, at his own weakness—laughed so hard he almost fell into one of the table-side chairs, sprawling across it, legs splayed out and one arm holding him in place across its back. 

Finally, he gained control of himself and sat up, wobbling a bit and wiping his still-weeping eyes with the back of a hand.

_Well, the old fool really was a fool! Only one bullet—he probably didn't even check it…_

Suddenly, his head snapped up. While he'd been amusing himself, he'd let down his guard. Now, alarms were clanging insistently in his head, his every sense was howling at him to pay attention! He felt them close—_too close!_—and saw his plans for a clean escape disappear in the smoke of "too late". If he were lucky, he'd get away, but only just, and with the secret of his whereabouts blown.

The cabin was light enough now to see clearly, so he began a frantic search for the one thing that mattered: that blade!

* * *

They surged into the little backyard, clearing fences and trampling gardens and knocking aside tools with careless abandon and disinterest. Before the horses were really stopped, to a man they leapt down and hit the ground running, guns and _katana_ alike drawn and readied in expert, eager hands. Not quite to a man—Yoshi had to climb down carefully, and he had no gun or _katana_, only a _tanto_ that Gozaemon had given him, a memento left behind by that redhead from last year. 

Another group, a less-experienced group, would have crowded into the little house, cramping each other's movements and presenting a nicely disordered target for the awaiting assassin. But this group knew their business: with only a gesture from Chiko, two ran on quiet feet to the front of the house; another covered the single wide window on the side of the house; the remaining three framed the doorway, Yoshi on one side and Kentaro on the other, Chiko poised in the entry. Tense silence descended on the scene, while all ears strained for edifying sounds, all senses stretched out for any advantage to be gained.

Then, with a small, sharp nod of his head, Chiko stepped inside, quickly slamming the door fully open against the wall. Yoshi and Kentaro waited a beat and followed, briskly separating once inside, taking up defensive stances on either side of him.

The scene was disturbing: shelves emptied and knocked over, their contents scattered on the floor around them, chairs upended, the table canted crazily with one leg broken nearly off, the _futon_ torn and bloodied, its stuffing strewn from one wall to the other.

_Where is Gozaemon?_ Yoshi knew they had first to think of the demon they sought, but his stomach fluttered wildly with worry over his friend.

They advanced into the room, small step by small step, the oppressive silence making their ears ring. Just as they passed the large cabinet in which Gozaemon kept his potions and powders, Yoshi flinched and swerved to his right. Later, much later, re-bandaging his healing shoulder, he would send grateful prayers to whichever spirit had warned him of the impending attack, turning the deadly thrust into a glancing swipe.

Now, however, the blow sent him sprawling forward and almost knocked the _tanto_ out of his hands. Instinctively, he continued his forward momentum, transforming it into a twisting roll that left him standing solidly, facing his attacker. He settled into stance, his empty left hand behind and supporting his right hand with the _tanto_, the blade angled across his body, shielding it.

Makoto sneered at him, the tip of the _wakizashi_—_When did he get that?_ Yoshi thought in shocked recognition—just inches from that of the _tanto_. The others were too far to intervene, they could only watch and wait and ready their response. With the two men at the front of the house, effectively at Yoshi's back, and the third at the window, to his left, there was no one behind Makoto, no one in a position to tip the standoff in their favor.

"Do you think you can win against me with that pitiful thing?" The cold venom in Makoto's voice froze Yoshi's blood in his veins and weakened his knees, and he knew his life hung in the balance of the next few moments.

He swallowed hard and, steeling himself, replied, "There are many of us. And you are still weak." He saw a flicker of agreement in the hard, cruel eyes, and he began to hope…

"My body may be healing, but you err to believe me weak. I have survived, and will continue to survive. And only the strong survive; the weak die."

And with these words, Makoto lunged. Time seemed to slow for Yoshi, and he saw his death hanging on the shining silver tip headed straight for his throat. But not for nothing had he survived all those desperate, terrifying, nightmarish battles. It may have been only a small blade he held in his hand, but it was a blade, and he had dispatched his share of enemies in order to live—this was another one and, even though this one reeked of evil determination, he would give as good as he got.

He sank lower into his stance, not only ducking below the oncoming blade, but gathering the muscles in his legs for an upward strike—his specialty. His face grimaced into its battle mask, and he threw it all out: voice, heart, strength, and blade, aiming his few inches of knife at his opponent's heart, prepared to feel the _wakizashi's_ edge bite deep into his back, perhaps feeling the last sensation he would ever feel.

Then it happened, the thing that broke the lock, the thing that saved them on this day of tenuous salvation, of uncertain outcomes.

The neighbor's damned dog, drawn by the commotion and the smell of strangers and horses and blood, had crept, tail between his legs, across the back yard, crept hunkered and slow and trembling to the open door of his second home. Peering inside, he could make out the stances of threat, could smell fear and anger and danger, and something deep within him, something buried far below the layers of tameness, beneath the life of table scraps and human affection and warm _futon_ corners, something lurking and living still in his inner wolf, analyzed who was Friend and who was Foe, and responded as his kind have always responded when The Pack is threatened. His hackles rose, his lips drew back, his fearful cowering transformed into a battle crouch.

He growled. Not the cowardly growl of the cur protecting a juicy bone, nor the nasty buzz of the spoiled lap-dog ungratefully fending off a friendly pat on the head, but the growl of the alpha male on point, no threat, no mere menace, but the attack begun. He growled and he sprang and he connected.

Canine teeth sank deep into the bandages covering The Intruder's right wrist, knocking the arm off course and tipping the _wakizashi_ upwards. It missed Yoshi entirely, but the _tanto_ now sliced along the length of Makoto's inner arm, cutting through the bandages and leaving a long clean cut that began to bleed freely.

The smell and taste of fresh blood further enraged the dog, and he clamped down and held on, held on through the yell of surprise and rage, held on through the blows rained on his head from the man's other fist, held on while the man staggered and spun and stumbled toward the door, the dog dragged along the floor, back feet scrabbling for purchase, held on until his grip was broken when The Intruder slammed him against the door frame on the way out of the house.

Stunned, the dog fell to the floor, blood welling from a cut above his ear, but with a triumphant glint in his eye: The Intruder had been driven out, The Pack—his pack—protected. Struggling up into a sit, head wobbling only a little, he looked around at his dumbstruck audience, the men so taken aback that they hadn't even budged.

And grinned, grinned a great, wide doggy grin.

Outside, before even the man at the window could react, Makoto had reached the nearest horse and swung up into its saddle, wrenching its head up out of the grass it had been grazing on. _A horse! This may work out even better than I'd hoped…_ His right forearm throbbed painfully, and his right shoulder was going to give him hell for a few days where he'd knocked it hard against the door ridding himself of that creature, but he wasn't about to let that stop him. One last glance behind him, and he jumped the horse into a dead gallop out of the yard, jabbing his heels deep into its flanks and heading off in the direction of the woods on the other side of the village.

_They aren't the only ones who know these roads…_

Back in the house, Chiko was hot for pursuit, but Yoshi and Kentaro reminded him that they were now short not just one horse—_we rode double, remember?_—but two, now that Makoto had stolen Chiko's own.

"And yours is the fastest, buddy. We'll never catch him now."

"You mean we're just going to let him get away?" Chiko was fairly shaking with frustration—that had been his favorite horse, after all—and it took both of them to restrain him from trying to run after the fleeing outlaw on foot.

"No..." Kentaro spoke to him like one would a child having a tantrum, firmly but calmly, reasonably. "We know what road he's taken. He was Ishin, too, right?" Chiko nodded impatiently. The others had come around from the outside, and had sheathed their swords, disappointed to have missed all the action, and Kentaro was afraid their unhappiness might be the final straw on Chiko's mood, so he was eager to get this settled.

"Let's go back to headquarters and notify…"

"Not Katsura! He'll have our heads!" Chiko's face drained nearly white at the thought.

"No, no—will you listen! We'll notify the police." Chiko started to protest, but Kentaro cut him off. "Look, the police may not be as good as our own ninjas, but they're everywhere, and they're determined. It may take them some time, but they're probably our best bet for tracking him down now."

Yoshi spoke up, "And the last thing we want is those morons who did this to him in on it!"

"Oh… all right!" Reluctantly, Chiko had to admit to the logic, as much as it rankled him. He growled at Kentaro, poking his friend's chest with a stiff, angry finger, "But the next time you come to me with the promise of a great adventure, it had better pay off!"

Now that his friends were arguing over heroic exploits and credit for capture, Yoshi could no longer keep his thoughts off his friend. _Where is he?_ Nothing in the house looked remotely like a body, yet there were no signs that he had had a chance to escape before they got there. In fact, Yoshi was certain that he hadn't. He had a very bad feeling about it all. Then he heard a sound that shocked him into giddy relief.

Weak with exhaustion and hoarse from exertion, but blessedly grouchy and growl-y, from under what had seemed at first just another wad of disarrayed clothing, came Gozaemon's demand, "Where the hell have you been?"

– **Owari –**

_

* * *

A/N: I do have an epilogue planned, just in case you are interested… Thanks for reading this far, and, especially, for the reviews, which keep me going and feed my dragon. _


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

KYOTO  
Ishin-shishi Headquarters

Breakfast was finished, and the meal room was almost empty as Kentaro poked his head around the open door.

"Anybody seen Chiko?"

The handful of men lingering over their meal turned to see who had broken the silence.

"He's out on the training field—why?"

Kentaro grinned mysteriously, replying, "Oh, I just have something for him, that's all. Thanks—I'll find him."

He withdrew and threaded his way along the dim, claustrophobically narrow corridors toward the rear of the compound, neatly dodging women lumbering along under piles of laundry and young boys running—_always running!_—to stock the training ground with _shinai_ and _bokken_, _naginata_ and _tanto_, wristguards and bandages, and emerged into the thin autumn morning light. Taking the steps in a quick rush, he jogged over the moist ground to the rise overlooking the large bare meadow sheltered on three sides by the remnants of a bamboo forest. He shielded his eyes against the backlighting of the sky to peer into the shadow cast by the forest's looming height, moving his gaze from figure to figure in the crowd, formed into groups for the day's practice.

_Ah, yes, there he is._

For a moment, he watched, appreciating again the smooth teamwork, the fluid give and take of _tori_ and _uke_, the coordinated techniques of squad moving against squad, of tracking and hunting and attacking. He felt the familiar satisfaction again, watching these men, his comrades, knowing he belonged and was depended on. Then he turned on his heel and headed back down the rise, toward his right, toward the stables.

It had taken him more than a month, and he was now indebted to the tune of three jugs of the very special, ancient-style Nigori sake, that lovely, milky-white nectar, and a full week of graveyard shift guard duty stretched before him, but as he fitted the halter over the steed's fine head and stood back to gaze at it stamping and tossing its head in eagerness to be out, he felt the thrill of the deal well-struck, of the quest fulfilled, of the obligation about to be filled with a vengeance.

The horse was fast—his own astonished eyes that day at the track had assured him of that!—and was as nearly perfectly conformed as he'd ever seen. And that was disregarding the burnished copper of its coat and the tractability of its nature, so unexpectedly paired with such a fiery eye.

With a little _frisson_ of anticipation, he took the lead in hand and stepped out of the stable door, the sweet music of solid hooves _clip-clopping_ beside him back over the dewy grass toward the training ground.

THE VILLAGE

Gozaemon groaned a little to himself as he sat up, and instantly a supporting hand was under his elbow.

"Are you all right?" Yoshi sounded only a little worried these days: although he'd felt the need to stick close for the last several weeks, his old friend had seemed to be healing nicely, especially given his age and the beating he'd taken.

"Yes, yes, I'm no dried leaf, you know!" Gozaemon held the back of his head with is free hand, feeling the remnant of the lump that was the remaining souvenir of his adventure. He immediately regretted his sharp words. Yoshi had been a god-send in every way: a competent nurse, and one who didn't fuss, but had seemed to anticipate his needs intuitively, bringing tea just when he needed it, returning from an unusually long morning's absence with a string of fish just on the day when Gozaemon's appetite had returned. "Thanks. My head just still hurts a little."

"Do you want anything for it? I still have some of that compound prepared…"

Gozaemon pulled himself up, stretching his neck against the lump and testing the limit of the pain. "No, but thanks anyway. It's much better today. In fact, I think I'll get dressed and see to the garden. It needs to be thatched for the winter…" He began to pile himself up, limb upon limb, stacking his bones for standing.

"Would you just stop and wait a minute? Let me help you!"

"Oh, all right!" Sighing in what he hoped sounded like impatience and exasperation, the old man paused and waited, waited for the helping hand that he actually still needed, waited for the muscled shoulder he'd come to depend on, waited for the borrowed strength he was going to need if he was going to see another spring…

THE SHISHIO FAMILY COMPOUND

"My lord, I've found the perfect place! It will take a lot of work to make it what we really need, but even as it stands it will serve well. It's several joined chambers with a hot spring moderating the temperature, and the entrance is impossible to detect. There is even access to a completely enclosed high meadow—ideal for training."

Houji's eyes glittered with excitement—he had not even told the best part: this gem of a headquarters, with all its promise for their future, was buried in none other than the sacred mountain of Hiei.

_Nothing less would be fit for the glorious endeavor that awaits us!_

He bowed low, bracing himself against the floor in a vain attempt to steady his thin frame's trembling with joy. His master's sudden arrival, in the dead of a black, new-moon, autumn night, on a horse so spent it had to be put down, had been surprising enough, but the shocking condition of his body had nearly unhinged the loyal servant. The weeks of recovery, and the tension of the stealth necessary for his master's safety, had all taken their toll on them both, but now, now that the lair had been found, now that he could feel his master's strength returning, now…

In the dim light of the inner rooms in which he'd taken refuge from even his own father, whom he'd not seen since his return, couldn't bear to face in his weakened state, Makoto's eyes reflected the glow from the smoldering tobacco in his pipe's bowl, that curiously long graceful pipe he'd brought back with him, a pipe unlike any Houji had ever seen.

"You've done well, Houji-san. Set it up."


End file.
